All Our Secrets Laid Bare
by Reinamy
Summary: They're best friends, but he wishes they could be so much more than that.


**Title:** All Our Secrets Laid Bare

 **Pairing:** Helga/Arnold

 **Warnings:** Post-series, high school era, drama, language, romance-centric, etc.

 **Disclaimer:** This is non-profitable fanwork. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Author's Notes:** Whoo, boy. Okay, so this was supposed to have been my Secret Santa gift-fic for the amazing _Polkahotness_ , but due to IRL complications, I was unable to complete it. I'm working on that now. Polkahotness—I am _so_ sorry for posting this so late. I offer this first chapter as an apology, a promise that I haven't forgotten about you, and an insurance that your gift-fic _will_ be completed (most of it has already been written).

To everyone else—I've wanted to write a fic like this for a while so I'm super excited to start posting it. There will be five chapters and updates will be erratic. Also, to those who're awaiting the sequel to _The Sensation of Falling_ —I'm afraid you're going to have to wait a bit longer. I want to get this, and then another shortaki fic I've been itching to write, out of the way before I resume working on it. Sorry!

Now that that's out of the way: happy reading~

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE**

* * *

 **[1]**

 _'Here is the deepest secret nobody knows.'_

Arnold laid on a bed that wasn't his own, back flat against the mattress and arms outstretched overhead, a thin poetry book between his hands.

He had never been fond of poetry. Most tended to be verbally evasive, more focused on connotation than denotation, on sounding pretty rather than getting to the heart of things. He preferred the straightforwardness of novels, preferred the simple language that made getting lost in them so effortless. The same could not be said for poetry, with all its silly frills, and the daydreamer in Arnold _resented_ that his imagination couldn't be an active participant when reading them. His mind was too busy trying to comprehend their meaning instead.

It was rare for him to come across a poem he could _grasp_ after only reading it once. It was even rarer that it _resonated_ with him. And yet that's exactly what happened when he flipped the book open to a random page and dragged his gaze over the text.

 _'Here is the deepest secret nobody knows_

 _(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud_

 _and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows_

 _higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)'_

Arnold held the book open with one hand and traced the words with the fingers of his other. Those words struck chords inside of him, chords he rarely acknowledged to exist and felt all the more now that he was forced to. Like catgut strings being plucked they reverberated through him, and he wasn't sure if he hated it more than he didn't, only knew that it wasn't enough to stop him from re-reading the poem again and again.

He was mouthing the words for the fifth, sixth, seventh time when the creak of the door drew his attention. He turned, and felt the chords dissolve into fluttering butterflies when he saw who stood in the doorway.

"Found 'em," Helga said as she stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind her. She shook the keys in a gesture of triumph before wisely pocketing them. "They were in the fridge."

"How did—you know what, never mind. I don't want to know," Arnold said, sitting up and snapping the book shut. He was used to Helga's weird habit of losing her keys everywhere, despite being one of the most responsible people he knew. It was a mystery.

She gave him a face for that, then her eyes landed on the highly conspicuous book in his hands and she faltered for a second, then quirked a brow. "Really _,_ Arnold?"

"I got bored waiting for you," he said, abandoning the book as he climbed off the bed. "Besides, you're one to talk. I thought you hated love poems." And stories. And movies. And music. Basically, if it had the word 'romance' or 'love' in it, chances were Helga would turn her nose up at it. Of course Arnold had been surprised, and then curious, when he found a book titled _'Classic Poems of the Heart'_ on Helga's nightstand, battered and dog-eared like it had passed her—or someone's, anyway—hands many times.

Her back was to him as she rummaged through her closet, so he couldn't see her face when she said, "It's mandatory reading for that college class I'm taking." She pulled a black leather jacket off a hanger and spun around. "Trust me, I wouldn't be caught dead reading that crap otherwise. You ready to go?"

"Yeah, I'm ready." He snatched his sweater from the back of her computer chair and shrugged it on, checked his pockets for his wallet, phone, and keys, and made his way for the door Helga was pulling open. He hesitated when he reached it, his eyes darting to the worn book.

"Hey, Helga? Are you still reading it? The book, I mean."

"No," she started slowly, eyes flickering from Arnold to the book. "I'm done with the assignment, but…you can't honestly want to read that. I thought you hated poetry."

" _Hate_ is a strong word," he prevaricated as he went to snatch up the book. "And the one I got a chance to read wasn't so bad. Definitely a step up from _Eliot_." They were reading _The Waste Land and Other Poems_ in class now and with each passing day Arnold wished he could travel back in time and prevent the man from ever being born, if only to prevent future generations of students (like himself) from the agony of having to interpret _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock._ And that wasn't even the worst of them.

"Eliot is _classic_ ," Helga said as she walked out of the room, leaving Arnold to switch off the light and shut the door. "But it figures you'd prefer that fruity crap. Do me a favor and keep it, would you? Just having that thing in my room upsets my sensibilities."

Arnold snorted, and Helga tossed him a quick grin over her shoulder before turning to open the front door. She kept it from closing with her foot, allowing him to pass, and proceeded to lock it as he bounded down the stairs of the stoop.

"What time does the movie start again? Twelve?" she asked.

Once he reached the bottom, Arnold turned towards her and started to answer. Only the words died on his tongue the moment his eyes landed on her, retreating as he swallowed, likely to be consumed by the butterflies that had just roused from their sleep.

The late-afternoon sun was high in the sky and Helga's hair burned gold under it. Her eyes, already an incredible shade of blue, shone in the daylight, robin-egg bright. She rose a hand to shield her face from the glare of the sun just as a light breeze picked up, sending her bangs fluttering and coaxing the hem of her dress to dance.

 _'Here is the deepest secret nobody knows.'_

"Tch. It's warmer than I thought it would be," he heard her mutter, and watched as she cleared the stoop steps in a single leap, her heavy boots hitting the pavement with a _thud_. She looked at him, jerked her chin, and strode off." Well, nothing for it. C'mon, Arnoldo. Unless you want to get stuck in the front row _again_ —" she was clearly remembering who'd made them late the last time, "—you'd better quit daydreaming and _move it."_

"R-right." He shook himself out of his daze and hurried after her.

He always seemed to be hurrying after her. Helga G. Pataki was a whirlwind on the best of days, and just keeping pace with her took effort not many people were willing, or capable of, expending. Arnold, who was amongst the few to see past the whipping winds to the very core of it—that calm, beautiful, terrifying focal point—was the exception. One glance, and he'd been chasing her storm for more glimpses ever since.

Helga glanced sideways at him the moment he fell into step beside her. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he said, flashing her a wry grin. "Just daydreaming, like you said."

Her gaze turned piercing, but he met it steadily, and soon enough she was rolling her eyes at him and lightly shoving him to the side. "Jeez, you're such a dork. How are we even friends?"

" _Best_ friends," Arnold corrected, laughing when she groaned at him not to remind her.

"I don't even want to know what that says about me. I must have seriously…"

Their sides brushed as they walked—arms, occasionally shoulders and hands—but neither of them made to move away. To Helga, it was _normal,_ just physical contact between close friends. But to Arnold…

It was so, so much more than that.

Grip tight over the book, Arnold forced himself to breathe.

 _'Here is the deepest secret nobody knows_

 _I carry your heart with me_

 _(I carry it in my heart).'_

* * *

 **x.x.x**

* * *

 **[2]**

 _'I have named you queen._

 _There are taller ones than you, taller._

 _There are purer ones than you, purer._

 _There are lovelier than you, lovelier._

 _But you are the queen.'_

"For the love of—Arnold! Would you put that stupid book down and give me a hand here?" Gerald grunted, and with a sigh, Arnold snapped the book shut, tucked it under his arm, and helped stuff back everything that was spilling from the edges of Gerald's locker so his friend could shut the door.

"You really need to clean out your locker," Arnold panted when they were done. He made a mental note to not be anywhere in the vicinity when Gerald had to open it again.

"What was that? You're volunteering to help?" Gerald lifted his bookbag from the floor and slung it over his shoulder. "Because I could definitely use some."

Before Arnold could think up a good excuse—a dentist appointment? No, no, he'd used that one already—a heavy arm slung over his shoulder, dragging him a few steps back. He flailed, but the arm tightened around him, preventing him from falling.

"No can do, Geraldo," Helga said from behind him. Arnold's heart, traitor it was, sped up at her close proximity. "Football-head's already got plans after school. With _me._ But hey, why don't you ask _Phoebe_ to help?" she added coyly. "I'm sure she'd _love_ to see proof of what a pig you are."

"Helga," Gerald said, tone leaking derision. "Wish I could say it was nice to see you, but we both know I'd be lying."

" _Cute_. You get points for your delivery, but I'm afraid your lack of originality still puts you at zero. Better luck next time, eh?" she said sweetly, before turning her face away and dismissing Gerald altogether. The other boy made a disgruntled noise but, to Arnold's relief, did not respond.

"Hey, Helga," Arnold sighed, not bothering to tell either of them off—that exchange had practically been tame. It used to upset him when his two best friends would quibble, but he'd quickly come to learn that trying to get them to be nice to each other was pointless. Nowadays he just left them to it until they got bored, only bothering to step in if things looked to be getting dangerous.

"Arnold _o_ ," she returned with considerably more warmth, squeezing his shoulder once before letting go and stepping away. Only years of practicing self-restraint kept his body from chasing hers.

"Did you need something?" he asked, recalling what she'd said about them having plans. If they did, he couldn't remember them. However, one look into Helga's eyes, at the subtle glimmer in them that likely only he could see, told him that she'd made that up to get him out of helping Gerald. He ducked his head, biting back a grin. Maybe once their deceit would have troubled Arnold enough to come clean, but long exposure to Helga's greyscale morals had tempered his own.

Besides, Arnold _really_ did not want to go anywhere near Gerald's locker. From the stench that was emanating from the slits, he was pretty sure _something_ was growing mold in there.

"Nah. Just came to remind you about our plans. Figured you'd need it after killing what few brain cells you have watching that stupid football show you like."

Another dig at Gerald, which his friend had undoubtedly caught if the scoff he made was anything to go by. Helga had a talent for sneaking insults into conversations when no one was expecting them.

Arnold rolled his eyes and nudged her in the side. "If you don't leave now you're going to be late."

Taking the hint, she bared her teeth at him, offered Gerald a mocking salute, and walked away, the heavy _thud_ of her boots echoing even in the noisy hallway. Arnold watched her go.

Helga always walked like she was on a mission, back straight and shoulders squared, her strides powerful and quick. Students instinctively eased out of her way as she walked past, parting around her as if the barrier she erected around herself was a tangible thing that'd cut if you ventured too close. Those who stood in her trajectory were quick to step aside, wary of a collision.

She was a whirlwind. And nothing that got in her way was safe.

 _'When you go through the streets no one recognizes you._

 _No one sees your crystal crown, no one looks at the carpet of red gold_

 _that you tread as you pass, the nonexistent carpet.'_

"That girl," Gerald exhaled, distracting Arnold from his thoughts, "is a menace."

"She's not that bad," Arnold swiftly defended her.

Gerald snorted and crossed his arms. "You're right. She's _worse._ "

Arnold opened his mouth to argue, but Gerald steamrolled over him. "I honestly don't understand how the two of you are actually friends. You guys are _nothing_ alike. As far as I can tell, the only thing you have in common is your blond, messy hair. Is that why you befriended her? 'Cause you wanted to hang around someone whose hair is worse than yours?"

"Stop it, Gerald. How many times are we going to have this conversation?"

"Until you finally tell me what you see in that girl! You've never even told me how you two became friends in the first place!"

"Why is that even important?" he groused, tightening his hand on his bag strap as he and Gerald stepped into the stream of students and headed for their next shared class.

"Uh, how about because it happened completely out of the blue? One day you hate the girl as much as I do, and then _wham_ , suddenly you're BFFs. I want to know how, why, and what drugs you were on to make you think it was ever a good idea _._ "

Arnold shook his head. Disregarding Gerald's suspicions about his nonexistent drug habit—it definitely hadn't been as effortless or as quick as his friend was making it seem. It had taken Helga and him a long time to learn how to interact without either of them storming off in a huff, and years to get to where they were now. It had not been easy, and there'd definitely been times when Arnold had questioned his sanity and wanted to write the whole thing off as his descent into madness. The only reason he'd persevered, despite Helga's mercurial moods and short-fuse temper and prickly attitude and ability to test his patience like no one else ever had, was because he'd glimpsed a side of her he'd never seen. A side that, the better acquainted he became with it, the more worthwhile it all wass.

Four years later, Arnold still considered getting to know her one of the best decisions he'd ever made for himself.

"It doesn't matter," Arnold lied. It mattered a lot, but the _why's_ and _how's_ were personal, private, and Arnold didn't want to share them, not even with his first best friend. "What _does_ matter is that we're friends now, and I really wish the two of you would learn to get along." It was said more out of habit than anything. He'd have better success at turning pandas into sex fiends. When Gerald leveled him a look that said _Sure, once Helga gets herself a full personality change_ and opened his mouth probably to say just that, Arnold pointed out, somewhat manipulatively, "Remember, she's best friends with Phoebe, too. And even if you don't trust my judgment, I know you trust hers."

His friend looked conflicted, but after a moment, determinedly shook his head. "Everyone makes lapses in judgment, even Phoebe."

Arnold gave up. Once they reached the classroom, waiting in front of the door since the bell had not yet rung, he pulled his book out from under his arm and flipped it open to the earmarked page, a clear indicator that he was done with the conversation. Gerald scoffed at his side, but thankfully subsided, pulling his phone from his pocket and leaving Arnold to read in peace.

The hallway was loud around him, almost deafening, but it was easy to get absorbed by the words on the page until eventually everything else—chatter, laughter, shouting, lockers slamming shut, shoes squeaking against the floor, the thud of books being dropped—faded to the background, white noise against his ears.

Arnold leaned against the wall and lost himself in the words and thoughts and feelings of people he didn't know, who probably lived millions of miles away if they were still alive at all, but he could relate with more easily than he could anyone else he knew.

 _'And when you appear all the rivers sound in my body,_

 _bells shake the sky, and a hymn fills the world._

 _Only you and I, my love, listen to it.'_

* * *

 **x.x.x**

* * *

 **[3]**

7th period was the only class shared by Arnold, Helga, Gerald, _and_ Phoebe, amongst a few others in their circle. Needless to say, it tended to be the most interesting class, even if the subject was tedious and the teacher, Mr. Rufus, even more so. Usually the interesting bits happened _after_ everyone in their group had arrived, so when Arnold walked into the class several minutes before the bell was scheduled to ring and found nothing but chaos, his curiosity was instantly piqued.

"Some guy just transferred in," Curly informed him once he was seated. Which explained the guy he'd never seen before currently sitting in Helga's usual seat, which was directly in front of Arnold's.

Arnold wasn't worried—Helga would deal with him as soon as she came in. In the meantime, he observed as the guy entertained the small crowd around of him. It didn't go amiss that it consisted mostly of girls. Girls who were _fawning_ over him, saying things like, "I like your name; it's very sophisticated," and "Wow, you're from California? Why ever would you want to move _here_?" and "You were the Vice-Captain of your old lacrosse team? That's amazing!"

Arnold quickly tuned them out once the conversation descended into questions about his relationship status and his ideal type of girl.

"Why'd he transfer _now_?" Arnold asked Curly. Not only was this a third year class, but it was already October, one month into the school term. Unfortunately, Curly didn't have an answer to give and Arnold definitely wasn't going to brave the fray of admirers to ask, so he filed the question away to revisit later.

Helga strolled into the room a minute later, and just as Arnold knew she would, walked right up to the new guy and said, "That's my seat." Nothing more was said, but unless the guy was extremely thick, he probably hadn't missed the unspoken _so move it_ that followed.

"Oh," the guy said, craning his head to look up at her. "Sorry. I didn't know." He gathered his bag, stood, and gestured to the seat directly to the left of hers. "Is it safe to sit there, or will I have to worry about getting kicked out of that one, too?"

Helga rolled her eyes—and then a second time when the other girls clamored to assure him it was fine, really, they should have warned him about Helga since the beginning—and unceremoniously dropped into her seat. Her bookbag was deposited beside her feet, and she twisted around until she was facing Arnold.

"So, who's the guy?" she asked, rolling up the sleeves of her shirt. She paused, then dug something out of her pocket. "Gum?" she offered, brandishing the little stick.

Arnold didn't hesitate to take it. He had a _slight_ gum addiction that Helga, for some reason, liked to enable. Not that he was going to complain any time soon. The silver wrapper fell to the desk as he popped it in his mouth. Spearmint. His favorite.

"New student, just transferred."

"That's weird," she commented, and then changed the subject to more interesting things, such as their plans for after school.

They were in the process of arguing over whether or not they should go bowling or hit the theater again (Arnold was in favor of the latter) when one of the girls loudly proclaimed, "—Bartholomew's such a _gorgeous_ name, don't you think?"

Helga stopped mid-word and snorted. Loudly. And before Arnold could admonish her for being rude, half the class' eyes were on them.

"You've got something to say?" The girl—Laney or Lana or something—demanded. But Helga wasn't even glancing in her direction. She was looking at the guy, whose head was tilted in open curiosity.

"That's an awful name," said Helga, flatly, earning mixed reactions from everyone. The hand Arnold had slapped over his face prevented him from seeing anyone's expressions, but he could hear the shocked hisses and snickers clearly. He peaked through his fingers to find the guy staring at her wide-eyed, as if he wasn't sure how he should respond to that. And then the corners of his mouth twitched and he _laughed._

"You're right," he admitted when his laughter died. "I've never actually forgiven my parents for naming me something so awful. I prefer _Bart,_ personally."

"I wouldn't either, if I were you," she agreed unsympathetically, earning another bark of laughter.

Bart twisted his body sideways so that he was facing her better, his fingers drumming against the desk. "So what's your name, then?

Arnold lowered his hand and frowned at him, looking away only when Helga spoke.

She was eyeing him shrewdly. "…Helga," she answered, though it sounded more like _why do you want to know?_

"Well, damn. I was kind of hoping you had an equally awful name so I could return the favor, but you had to go and have a pretty one. Maybe I'll have better luck with your surname?"

"Your subtly leaves _a lot_ to be desired. I almost want to tell you out of pity. Almost."

When he flashed her a grin and quirked an expectant brow, she rolled her eyes and turned away from him, dismissive.

"Pataki. Now quit bugging me."

She wasn't looking at him anymore, so she didn't see the way the guy dropped his chin into his palm and watched her, the barest hint of a smile peeking out from behind his hand, looking away only when someone called his name—the shortened version of it.

Helga was talking, but it was difficult paying attention to her when his mind kept replaying the image of the new guy's— _Bart's—_ expression just then. The look in his eyes. The way he'd smiled. It made him uneasy.

He had no time left to ponder it, however, since Phoebe and Gerald rushed in a moment later, clothes disheveled and hair mussed—no question as to why _they_ were late—and the bell rang soon after, the teacher trailing in as it petered off.

The class rushed by in a blur, and before he knew it the bell signaling the end of the period was blaring through the speakers and everyone around him was gathering their things and standing to leave. Arnold followed suit, snapping his notebook shut on an empty page and stuffing everything into his bag, which he hoisted over his shoulder as he stood. He eased out of the aisle and headed for the front, where Helga stood talking with Phoebe.

Gerald and Curly were long gone, no doubt trampling people in the hallways and stairwells in their haste to make it to the gym before the start of 8th period. If they were late to enter the locker room by even a second the ornery P.E. teacher, Mr. Johnson, would write them up. Never mind that the gym was four floors above them and on the opposite side of the building.

"—this weekend?" He heard Phoebe say as he approached. "Sounds good. I'll call you to let you know. Oh, hey, Arnold. Sorry, but I've really got to go. See you later, you two." And then she was off, disappearing into the throng of students vying for the exit.

Arnold looked up at Helga. "What was that about?"

"Nothing important." Helga waved it off, then looked down at him critically. "I tried getting your attention twice but you were off in la-la land. You were completely out of it. Did you even manage to take notes? The material we covered today is going to be on the quiz tomorrow, you know."

Arnold thought about the page he'd written the date onto and nothing else, and shook his head.

Helga made an exasperated noise that was completely at odds with the gleam of amused fondness in her eyes. Arnold's heartbeat quickened at being on the receiving end of that look, and he ducked his head in case his face decided to betray him.

"You're hopeless," she said, thumping him lightly over the head. Arnold rubbed the spot and frowned up at her, but was ignored. "But as I'm such an magnanimous person, I'll let you copy my notes before we head to the bowling alley."

And there it was, her stipulation for getting his hands on her notes. Arnold snorted at her supposed _magnanimity_ , but didn't argue. Getting thrashed by the reigning bowling champ was a small price to pay in exchange for not failing the quiz.

"Fine," he sighed. There was no longer a crowd by the door, so the two of them began making their way towards it. "But we're staying no more than an hour, Helga."

"Two hours."

"An hour and fifteen minutes."

"An hour and a half."

"Deal," Arnold said quickly, catching Helga's grin and returning it.

They said their goodbyes out in the hallway then parted ways. Arnold had taken only a few steps when a familiar voice called out, "Bye, Helga Pataki!" and he craned his head to zero in on its source.

Bart Ramsey stood at the edge of the lockers, one hand stuffed in his designer-jeans pocket and the other raised in a wave. His brown eyes, a shade or two lighter than his skin, were fixed on Helga. Below them, his lips were stretched in an easy smile.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said once he'd captured her attention.

It was a promise if he'd ever heard one, and Arnold shifted uneasily, the hand over his bag tightening.

Helga regarded him for a moment, then released a quick exhale from her nose. "Only if I'm unlucky," she retorted, proceeding to walk away without a backwards glance and thus missing the way the guy's smile evolved to a grin.

The unsettled feeling from earlier returned, like a sinking in the pit of his stomach, and persisted even as Arnold forced his feet into moving and both Helga and Bart were an entire hallway behind him.

Arnold _knew_ what his look meant, had seen it on a handful of other guys before, though it tended to be short-lived once they realized Helga's interest in romantic pursuits was like a lever permanently jammed at zero and she wasn't afraid to punch anyone who tried to force it to move. After all, for all her abrasiveness and sharpness of tongue, Helga _was_ pretty. Beautiful, really. And that was the first thing guys noticed.

Gerald had once compared her to oleander—nice to look at, fatal to touch. Which was melodramatic as heck, but…not entirely false, either.

So Arnold was used to guys being attracted to Helga. Couldn't blame them when there were so many things to be attracted about. It wasn't something he was usually bothered by because it was never something Helga bothered _with._

It didn't make sense that he was feeling so agitated. Bart's apparent attraction wouldn't be any different from any of the others. The outcome would be exactly the same. So why did he feel so…unsettled?

Brows furrowed in thought, he entered the stairwell and slowly made his way up the stairs. He nearly collided with someone who was walking down the wrong side of the staircase, but managed to grab hold of the railing just in time. He ignored the hasty apology tossed at him, secured his bag over his shoulder, and continued to climb, his thoughts chasing each other again the instant they were free to do so.

Upon reaching the landing, Arnold rapidly shook his head. It didn't help. A feeling of disquiet was clinging to his skin that he couldn't shake off.

Arnold urged his feet faster, walking the rest of the way to his 8th period class at a brisk pace that bordered on a run.

But no matter how fast he moved, he couldn't escape the feeling that things were about to change.

It chased him for the rest of the day.

* * *

 _ **to be continued.**_

* * *

 **Author's Note:** BTW, This story disregards both _Hey Arnold!_ movies. All information regarding the beginning of Helga and Arnold's friendship will be revealed later on. Thanks so much for reading, folks! Feedback is super appreciated, as always!

 **Featured poems:**

 _1) I Carry Your Heart With Me (I Carry It In My Heart) – E.E. Cummings_

 _2) The Queen – Pablo Neruda_


End file.
